“We spent three hours together in the train,”
said Levin smiling, “but got out, just as in
a masquerade, quite mystified—­at least
I was.”

“Nonsense! Come along, please,” said
Stepan Arkadyevitch, pointing in the direction of
the dining room.

The men went into the dining-room and went up to a
table, laid with six sorts of spirits and as many
kinds of cheese, some with little silver spades and
some without, caviar, herrings, preserves of various
kinds, and plates with slices of French bread.

The men stood round the strong-smelling spirits and
salt delicacies, and the discussion of the Russification
of Poland between Koznishev, Karenin, and Pestsov
died down in anticipation of dinner.

Sergey Ivanovitch was unequaled in his skill in winding
up the most heated and serious argument by some unexpected
pinch of Attic salt that changed the disposition of
his opponent. He did this now.

Alexey Alexandrovitch had been maintaining that the
Russification of Poland could only be accomplished
as a result of larger measures which ought to be introduced
by the Russian government.

Pestsov insisted that one country can only absorb
another when it is the more densely populated.

Koznishev admitted both points, but with limitations.
As they were going out of the drawing room to conclude
the argument, Koznishev said, smiling:

“So, then, for the Russification of our foreign
populations there is but one method—­to
bring up as many children as one can. My brother
and I are terribly in fault, I see. You married
men, especially you, Stepan Arkadyevitch, are the
real patriots: what number have you reached?”
he said, smiling genially at their host and holding
out a tiny wine glass to him.

Everyone laughed, and Stepan Arkadyevitch with particular
good humor.

“Oh, yes, that’s the best method!”
he said, munching cheese and filling the wine-glass
with a special sort of spirit. The conversation
dropped at the jest.

“This cheese is not bad. Shall I give
you some?” said the master of the house.
“Why, have you been going in for gymnastics
again?” he asked Levin, pinching his muscle with
his left hand. Levin smiled, bent his arm, and
under Stepan Arkadyevitch’s fingers the muscles
swelled up like a sound cheese, hard as a knob of
iron, through the fine cloth of the coat.

“What biceps! A perfect Samson!”

“I imagine great strength is needed for hunting
bears,” observed Alexey Alexandrovitch, who
had the mistiest notions about the chase. He
cut off and spread with cheese a wafer of bread fine
as a spider-web.